Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes
by Noisseau
Summary: As the events of the movie come to a close, Holmes is bereft and Watson is left behind. However, it soon becomes clear that the adventure is far from over....
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The events and characters recognizable from YSH belong to Paramount,  
though I have reason to believe that Holmes belongs solely to himself....  
  
  
A/N: Well, after much searching, I've been unable to find any fanfic based on   
"Young Sherlock Holmes," one of the better Holmes films, in my humble opinion.   
Thus, as I've often found, when you want to read something, you usually end up   
having to write it yourself. So, I've begun this fic with the final events of the   
movie....it shall evolve into who-knows-what from there. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
  
**********  
  
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes  
  
**********  
  
London  
Winter, 1871  
  
  
  
  
"I never want to be alone."  
  
So went Holmes's quiet answer that evening at the supper table. Our companions,   
each of whom had expounded effusively on their prospective careers, exchanged   
silent glances and raised eyebrows. To their minds, this was simply Holmes being  
his odd and inscrutable self, determined to answer even the simplest of questions   
in a cryptic manner. But even after such a short time, I knew him more deeply   
than that.   
  
It was a rare insight into his emotions, to be sure, a part of himself that he   
normally kept tightly under wraps. I was actually rather astonished that he   
revealed such a personal thing at all, to say nothing of divulging it in front of  
his supposed archrival.  
  
"I never want to be alone," he'd intoned in a far-away voice, almost as if he'd   
forgotten about his audience altogether. His attention seemed entirely transfixed   
by the pale, willowy form visible through the frosted window--Elizabeth. For   
all of his focus, determination, and voracity when it came to deduction and   
detection, Sherlock Holmes wanted nothing so much as the companionship of that   
one remarkable girl.  
  
"I never want to be alone," said he.  
  
And yet, that is exactly how the close of our first adventure together found him.  
Sweet Elizabeth had died protecting him, and Holmes was left utterly alone, and   
resigned to remaining so.  
  
Or so he thought.  
  
  
  
  
J. H. Watson  
  
  
  
  
**********  
  
  
  
A/N: Well, I know that this part was short; that's what's known as a "teaser." ;-)   
I'm sure to keep writing whether you want me to or not, but I certainly prefer to   
proceed with your approval.....aka: feedback..... 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: The events and characters recongnizable from YSH belong to Paramount, though I have  
reason to believe that Holmes belongs solely to himself....  
  
  
A/N: Alright, guys, here's the next installment, brief though it is.  
  
  
  
  
**********  
  
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes  
  
**********  
  
Near the Thames, London  
Winter, 1871  
  
  
  
  
It was the last time I ever saw Holmes cry willingly, sitting there in the new snow and clutching  
Elizabeth to his breast. I felt helpless. How could I console the boy--the man, really--who  
had, to that point, seemed emotionally impermiable. It was then that I realized that there could  
be no real comfort for Sherlock Holmes, not now, maybe not ever. So I resolved to do what I  
could for him.  
  
With what I hoped was a reasuring squeeze on his trembling shoulder, I ran off to find a  
constable. Having located one walking his beat only a block away, we were back within minutes,  
police whistle screeching, to find Holmes still holding Elizabeth. She seemed somehow only to be  
sleeping as he craddled her against his chest. For a moment, I even imagined that I saw her  
eyelids flicker briefly, but dismissed it in the next instant as wishful thinking. I wasn't a  
doctor yet, but I knew very well that Elizabeth was dead.  
  
I glanced at Holmes as the sound of many heavy footsteps and carraige wheels began to converge on  
our location. His face was burried in her hair, probably to hide his weeping. I was absurdly  
glad he hadn't seen the minute movement on Elizabeth's face, if indeed it had been more than my  
traumatized imagination.  
  
Almost before I knew what was happening, a horse-drawn ambulence had arrived and its attendants  
were gently prying Elizabeth's body--I shuddered to think of her in such a manner!--away from  
Holmes. For a moment, it looked like he might fight them, but then he visibly reined himself in  
and loosed his hold on her still form.  
  
I watched helpelessly as he slowly stood, and almost absentmindedly wiped the remaining tears  
from his long face. I took a step toward him, not at all sure how to comfort him, wanting to  
comfort myself, but hesitated as his eyes became dull and shuttered. Apparently noticing my  
uncertainty, he went so far as to lay one long, elegant hand heavily on my shoulder, letting it  
rest there for a brief moment.  
  
After that small gesture, Holmes was all business. He calmly related our adventure to Inspector  
Lestrade, systematically explaining the criminal movements of Ehtar and his strangely coiffed  
followers. He hesitated only briefly when it came time to tell of Elizabeth's final heroic act.  
I watched with some trepidation as his eyes lost their focus for a moment, only to snap back  
with an almost-audible click as he resolutely shoved his grief aside and pressed on.  
  
I have never admired Holmes so much as I did in that moment, standing in a sodden, dingy  
back-alley near the Thames. In all of our adventures before and since, he was ever a figure  
greatly to be admired, with a boundless intellect, a rapier-quick wit, a natural grace of  
movement, and a surprising though ready kindness of heart.  
  
But in those next days, when he was laid so low by the abrupt loss of the person dearest to his  
heart, I became the fortunate witness to the deep-seated and unflagging courage of Sherlock  
Holmes.  
  
  
  
J. H. Watson  
  
  
**********  
  
A/N: Hmmmm.... At the moment, I'm exploring the character, I suppose, but the action is fast  
approaching. What could it be, I wonder....  
  
Thanks for all of the wonderful feedback, by the way. I love SH readers! 


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: The events and characters recognizable from YSH belong to  
Paramount, though I have reason to believe that Holmes belongs solely to  
himself....  
  
  
A/N: Ah-hah! The plot begins to emerge....  
  
  
  
  
**********  
  
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes  
  
**********  
  
London  
Winter, 1871  
  
  
  
At the close of the affair with Ehtar and his Egyptian cult, the turmoil that had  
marked the preceding week simply refused to cease. Though Holmes and I were no  
longer chasing all over London like men possessed, there remained many questions  
that needed answering, and thus many interminable sessions with Inspector Lestrade.  
At the time, they felt uncomfortably like interrogations.  
  
Through the next several tedious and tiring days, Holmes remained stonily silent  
whenever possible. He would answer the Inspector's queries in a clipped and hurried  
fashion, saying only as much as was necessary. It was as if he could hardly be  
bothered to pause his own furious contemplations in order to fully address Lestrade's  
inevitably ponderous lines of inquiry. I well recognized the signs by then: dull eyes,  
perpetually furrowed brow, lanky form slouched uncomfortably in a chair, vacant gaze  
directed for hours at some uninteresting inanimate object. To my momentary amusement,  
I noticed that he'd even taken to contemplatively sucking on that silly pipe I'd been  
forced to buy, though he did not try to smoke it just then. Clearly, Holmes was  
systematically going over and over the events, clues, and nuances of the case,  
silently frantic in his quest for any error, any decision he might have made  
differently.  
  
I came upon him once, two days after the close of the investigation. He was slouched  
in a winged-back armchair in Elizabeth's old sitting room, having fallen into an  
exhausted and restless slumber. I stood watching him for a moment, wondering what I  
could possibly do to help this, my closest friend, when I noticed his eyelids  
beginning to twitch rapidly. Before my eyes, his breath started to hitch painfully  
in his chest, and strangled moans to pour from his mouth. I took a startled step  
toward him, at first worried that he might be ill. I reached Holmes' side as he  
clutched at his middle and was about to inquire after his health, when his moans  
suddenly became coherent.  
  
"No...Elizabeth!" he whimpered in obvious distress, tears squeezing from the corners  
of his tightly closed eyes.  
  
//A dream...// I realized belatedly, painfully torn between waking him from this new  
horror and saving him the embarrassment of knowing I'd been witness to it. The former  
quickly won out as Holmes began to sob in earnest, though quietly. I reached out to  
grasp one quivering shoulder and shook him as gently as I could. "Holmes," I called  
out in a normal tone of voice, hoping to startle him awake. "Holmes, come on then,  
wake up."  
  
Abruptly, Holmes started violently away from me, wrenching himself from my grasp.  
For the briefest of moments, he stared at me, eyes wide with disorientation and, I  
thought, a touch of fear. Then I watched as he visibly pulled himself together.  
He produced his handkerchief, quite nonchalantly, and cleaned the tear tracks from his  
thin cheeks. When he pulled the cloth away, I could no longer see any difference in  
his visage from his normally cool and collected demeanor. He leaned forward, placing  
elbows on knees, and drew in several deep, calming breaths before commenting, "So  
sorry, Watson." His voice was tightly controlled, straining well beyond his usual  
dulcet tones. More measured breathing, then, "I've been...dreaming often since...  
since Elizabeth...." he trailed off, knowing that I well understood his meaning.  
  
I once again wondered how I could possibly comfort my friend Holmes, who normally  
seemed so completely self-sufficient, fully capable of handling any situation.  
Ruthlessly pushing aside my own discomfort, I reached out once again and placed a  
tentative hand on his wiry shoulder. I felt him tense momentarily, so unused was  
he to such contact from me--or anyone save Elizabeth, I was certain. Soon,  
however, he allowed himself to relax fractionally when he saw that I would not  
unhand him unless he expressly wished it.  
  
He sighed quietly, and then murmured, "This is intolerable, Watson!"  
  
I was surprised, to say the least. He hadn't so much as spoken Elizabeth's name  
to me since her untimely death. This blunt and unexpected confession revealed  
more to me about his tortured state of mind than he'd meant it to, I'm sure.  
  
We'd managed to solve the case through Holmes' leaps of deduction and a bit of  
quick thinking at the end, but the cost to both Holmes and myself was tremendous.  
For his part, no matter how agilely his mind had worked, he'd been unable to foresee  
or prevent the tragic loss of the person dearest to him. That she had perished  
from a bullet that was meant for Holmes could only have been like rubbing all of  
the salt in the Dead Sea into an already festering wound. This bereavement had,  
of course, effected me deeply as well, as I'd come to view Elizabeth as quite a  
formidable ally, friend, and addition to our impromptu detection team.  
  
On top of it all, the perpetrator of these countless heinous crimes had slipped  
through our desperate fingers into the icy depths of the Thames, thus avoiding any  
earthly punishment. His dastardly survival would remain unknown to us for many  
years until he resurfaced, so to speak, to menace Holmes and myself once again.  
But that story has been told elsewhere.  
  
"I can think of nothing," Holmes continued, "nothing that could have prevented...it."  
  
I could determine no way to respond that would not be scoffed at nor belittle what  
he was feeling, so I simply stood, allowing him to voice his dispirited ruminations.  
  
"If only she hadn't...." Holmes fell silent, grimacing horribly, and with a start I  
remembered my original reason for searching him out.  
  
"Holmes," I began slowly, steeling myself for his myriad possible reactions to my  
news. He cocked his bent head slightly to the side to show his attention. "Holmes,  
a messenger just came from Inspector Lestrade. The note was addressed to the both of us,  
so I've opened it...." I trailed off, loath to even voice its contents.  
  
Holmes pulled away from my hand, sitting up quickly. "Do get on with it, Watson,"  
he exclaimed impatiently.  
  
I began to fidget with the top button on my vest, unable to meet his piercing gaze.  
"He said...he said that the morgue cannot find Elizabeth's body," I blurted out,  
my eyes flying up to his face. I was not surprised to see the series of emotions  
which played across it as he processed this new information. There first came  
shock, followed quickly by a profound sorrow, his features finally settling into  
no small amount of indignant anger.  
  
"But, Watson," he began, leaping out of his chair to pace a tight circuit around  
the room. "How can that be? Lestrade expressly promised me that only the best  
people would handle her--" Holmes stopped short of actually referring to Elizabeth  
as a mere body. "Incompetent fools," he muttered, still pacing furiously. "It's  
certainly happened many times before, losing a body. But why would Elizabeth go  
missing? Could Ehtar have.... No, that makes no sense." He came to rest abruptly  
in front of me and took hold of my shoulders. "Watson, did the message give any  
more information?" he asked urgently, looming over me.  
  
Knowing that Holmes would never be satisfied by my own recitation, I reached into my  
coat pocket and pulled out the hastily written message. It read:  
  
  
Masters Holmes & Watson:  
  
City Morgue reports body of Miss Elizabeth Hardy has gone  
missing. Last seen by ambulance attendants and night nurse.  
Please come by Yard to consult.  
  
Inspector Lestrade  
  
  
After reading the crumpled bit of paper, Holmes stood utterly still, his jaw muscles  
working furiously. Then, much to my dismay, he leapt into action, grabbing up his  
newly acquired inverness and deerstalker cap. "Come Watson! We must get to the Yard  
as soon as possible, before the trail goes cold," he cried, bounding out of the room  
and disappearing down the stairs before I could respond. Like a well-trained  
bloodhound, Holmes was on the scent.  
  
I had no other option but to follow him, so with a sigh, I quickly took up my own  
garments and contented myself with keeping his lanky form and billowing overcoat  
in view.  
  
  
  
  
J. H. Watson  
  
  
**********  
  
A/N: Continued character exploration (you know how romantic Watson is!). Great scott,  
will Holmes never have closure??  
  
I've made it to the watermark of 10 reviews, happy days! Feedback spurs me on.... 


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: The events and characters recongnizable from YSH belong to   
Paramount, though I have reason to believe that Holmes belongs solely to   
himself....  
  
A/N: Well, I've finally found time to crank out something non-school   
related! The plot is beginning to take shape.....or at least be hinted   
at.....a little..... ;-)  
  
  
  
**********  
  
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes  
  
**********  
  
Metropolitan Police Headquarters  
Great Scotland Yard, London  
Winter, 1871  
  
  
  
"Someone's probably snatched it to sell on the black market," Inspector  
Lestrade said blandly, his expression verging on profound exasperation.   
  
I winced at the man's callous comment and glanced surreptitiously at  
Holmes. Anger flared briefly on his face, but was quickly doused by the  
chilling glare that he fixed on the older man.  
  
"I am *well* aware of the possible motives behind this incident," said  
Holmes, his voice razor-sharp. "What I expect from you and your  
department is a prompt and thorough investigation into the matter!   
Though I cannot say I've been overly impressed by your efficiency thus  
far," he added under his breath. The insult seemed to echo in the tiny  
office.  
  
Inspector Lestrade began to sputter indignantly, his round face flushing  
crimson. I edged deliberately toward the rigid Holmes, deciding that I  
might at least attempt to prevent their strangling one another. To my  
decided relief, a burly P.C. chose that moment to poke his head 'round  
the open door.  
  
"Sorry to in'erupt you, Inspec'or Lestrade, but ye said you wan'ed those  
reports from 'ospital straight away when they arrived," the young bobby  
announced crisply, tucking his blue, domed helmet under his arm and  
extending a thin dispatch envelope to the livid Inspector.   
  
After drawing a deep and, hopefully, calming breath, Lestrade leaned  
across his cluttered desk to snatch the sheaf of papers from the  
constable and muttered a quick, "Well done, Hampton, you may go."  
  
Nearly overcome by this minuscule compliment, P.C. Hampton snapped to  
attention and did a smart about face before leaving Lestrade's office,  
his hand stealing up to finger his sparse mustache in pleasure.  
  
My momentary amusement at the man's officiousness was quickly squelched  
by the grim look I saw on Lestrade's face as I turned my attention back  
to him. He was scanning the few pages hurriedly, his brow furrowed in  
consternation, but then he seemed to remember his audience and clapped  
the folder quickly shut. The portly, newly-promoted Inspector looked  
admirably calm as he made his pronouncement. "There is no record of a  
Miss Elizabeth Hardy having been attended in *any* state of being at any  
of the greater London hospitals. A thorough search has been made of the  
hospital to which the ambulance delivered the body, and no trace can be  
found. As I have said, her body has simply disappeared--no intrigue  
involved!"   
  
He said this last quite sharply, and I felt his words hit me like a  
smart slap in the face. How dare he speak of the recently dead in such  
a fashion, and to those closest to her in life, no less! This new  
injustice on top of an already painful grief led me to seriously  
contemplate turning on my heel and walking out of his infernal office  
without another word. Needless to say, if the Inspector's words were  
causing me such distress, I could only guess at what seething emotions  
might be hidden beneath Holmes' icy facade.  
  
Holmes held himself stiffly, his hands clasped tightly behind his back,  
his voice carefully measured as he asked, "Did your constables use the  
picture I lent you to check any unidentified bodies?" There was no  
longer any hesitation in his reference to Elizabeth as simply a body,  
though I suspected that this show of practiced professionalism was  
mostly for Lestrade's benefit.  
  
"Yes, Holmes!" Lestrade exclaimed, clearly fed up with the entire  
situation. "We've followed every avenue available to try and locate the  
girl's body, but it is simply not there for us to find."  
  
"But, Inspector--"  
  
"*No*, Mr. Holmes," he pronounced with a definite air of finality.   
"There is not a thing left for us to investigate. Miss Hardy's body is  
gone, and that is that. There will be no finding it, not by Scotland  
Yard and certainly not by you!" He did not bother to hide the faint  
trace of distaste in his tone as he said this.  
  
I secretly hoped that he would feel some nasty consequences for this  
blunder from his supervisor as soon as the new day dawned.  
  
"Good day then, Inspector," Holmes bade him farewell with great  
asperity, moving forward only as much as was necessary to retrieve the  
small photograph of Elizabeth from atop a teetering stack of files, and  
left the room without a second glance at either of us.  
  
I moved to follow him, but was stopped short by a sudden, overwhelming  
need to vent my reproach at the Inspector's uniformly roughshod  
treatment of our feelings and of Elizabeth's memory. I puffed my chest  
out a bit, looked the older man squarely in the eye, and said with  
gravity, "I hope you're satisfied, Inspector Lestrade. Elizabeth was a  
fine girl, and she certainly did not deserve to die so young or in such  
a manner, still less to have you--supposedly a representative of  
justice--relegating her to the status of a mere cadaver that might be  
sold for organs." I felt the bile rise in my throat at the thought.   
"Had you only chosen to believe us earlier, or at least to look into our  
legitimate concerns, a dear friend of Holmes and myself would likely be  
alive at this moment, instead of becoming a short footnote in your case  
file." He had the decency to look chagrined, but as he seemed unable to  
answer my charges, I quickly excused myself and left his office.   
  
As I rounded the corner and stepped into the corridor, I spotted Holmes  
pacing restlessly a little further on. I was grateful that he'd waited  
for me, as I knew what it must have taken to restrain the kinetic desire  
for knowledge that was, once again, building up in him. That glimpse of  
him is forever etched in my memory: his shoulders hunched, one arm  
crossed tightly over his chest, the other kneading his jaw in thought,  
and mumbling quietly to himself. It was, however, the desperation in  
his movements, tinged with a faint, almost nonexistent hope, that caused  
a sudden gush of sadness to wash over me. Even now, after having  
witnessed Elizabeth's death in his arms, Holmes was able to grasp the  
unknown and make it into the shadow of a possibility. If he couldn't  
see her empty eyes and feel her glacial skin for himself, there would  
always be a doubt in his mind as to her fate.  
  
Repressing a sigh, I fell into step beside him, and we made our weary  
way out of the Yard building. Thinking him to have been utterly  
preoccupied, I was surprised to feel the brief, warm clasp of his hand  
on my shoulder. A glance at him showed no change in his concentrated  
expression, but I knew that he must have heard what I'd said to the  
Inspector and was thanking me. Even in the face of the biting winter  
wind, it warmed me right through.  
  
  
  
J. H. Watson  
  
**********  
  
A/N: Hmmmmm..... Students of the Holmsian method of detection might be   
able to pick up on where this ride will be taking us. Just a note: the   
Met Police commissioner had offices on a street known as "Great Scotland   
Yard," but there was not an actual station there until 1875, so I have   
had to house them anonymously. Nonetheless, since the Head Man was housed   
on that street, the organization itself, regardless of location, was often   
known as "Scotland Yard."Anyone have any more information?  
  
--Kumiko: if you haven't noticed, as well adjusted as Holmes may be to   
some things, he has something of a complex already in relation to "down time"...  
...this is just a temporary, preliminary sort of complex  
  
--maquena: I tried to explore dear Watson's feelings a bit more this time.   
I have to say, though, that most of the time in the Cannon, he seemed to   
love speculating effusively about Holmes more than anything.... 


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: The events and characters recongnizable from YSH belong   
to Paramount, though I have reason to believe that Holmes belongs   
solely to himself....  
  
  
A/N: Well, after much time and sporadic writing, I have   
finally finished the next installment in this little saga.   
This is where the real meat of the plot first becomes apparent,  
so I hope y'all approve and enjoy it.   
  
  
  
**********  
  
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes  
  
**********  
  
London  
December, 1871  
  
  
  
In spite of Lestrade's warning, Holmes immediately made his way to London's largest working   
hospital, with my weary self trailing in his wake. He confronted each and every nurse,   
doctor, and orderly in the receiving area, forgetting most of the time to be polite in his   
questioning. This inevitably led to exasperation on the part of the hospital staff and our   
eventual expulsion from the building.  
  
I was secretly relieved to be away from the place; they hadn't been able to shed any light   
on our problem, anyway. As Lestrade had so casually stated, there was no record of   
Elizabeth's body by name or otherwise. No one could recall a young, dead girl having been   
admitted into the hospital morgue on the night in question nor subsequently.   
  
In short, the paltry trail was stone cold.  
  
Holmes was quietly furious as we returned to sit in the old professor's study. "I'm missing   
something, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed as he threw himself into his usual chair. "I must be.   
There's foul play afoot here, I am certain of it, but...." He sighed in frustration.  
  
I watched him for a moment, searching for any sign that he still harboured the preposterous   
glimmer of hope I'd seen in his eyes after our meeting with Lestrade. It was still there, I  
discovered, though considerably dampened by the utter lack of evidence in any direction.   
"Holmes," I began slowly, "I must say that I am inclined to agree with the Inspector's   
conclusions, now more than ever. Someone *must* have taken her body to be sold to a medical  
college. It happens all too often, as I should well know."  
  
He stared at me for a long while, and I did my best to meet his gaze with all the weight of   
my conviction. I could fairly see the gears of his formidable mind whirring as he mentally   
stepped back from his emotional involvement in the situation to analyze what scant data we   
possessed. In the end, I watched with some private chagrin as that bare hope that had so   
thoroughly gripped him flickered and died a lamentable death.   
  
I hated that it was I who had killed it in him. At the same time, I was secretly awed that   
he trusted and valued my judgment enough to allow me to do it.  
  
With a resigned sigh, Holmes finally sank back into his chair, seeming to fold inward on   
himself. After the day's short, but furious expenditure of energy, we both turned our minds  
and our hearts back to the task of laying our friend to rest.  
  
Though I knew rationally that we were in no way at fault for Elizabeth's heinous murder, the  
part of myself that had come to love her so dearly ignored our successes and pointed   
unwaveringly at our ultimate failure in the matter. Elizabeth was dead. We had failed   
her--failed to protect her, failed to save her, and even failed to adequately avenge her.   
I felt the despair of that very keenly for a long while, so I am sure that Holmes felt it   
even more so.   
  
In all of my long association with him, Holmes continually took even the most miniscule of   
defeats deeply to heart. A case that ended in anything less than shining success would set   
him quietly brooding over any fault he should happen to find in his own actions. And yet,   
somehow Holmes was always able to come to terms with his doubts and lay them to rest in   
favour of the next "pretty problem." The loss of Elizabeth was no exception. I like to   
think that my carefully surreptitious encouragements in this direction helped him move   
forward, but of course, he never commented on it to me.  
  
All too quickly, in my thinking, the day came when I had to bid my friend Holmes farewell.   
Elizabeth's funeral had been a small affair, as she had no more living family, with only   
some members of the faculty and student body attending. The service was made all the more   
painful for Holmes and myself, as we were the only ones present who knew that the coffin was  
horribly empty.  
  
Unlike myself, Holmes did not shed a single tear, though when I glanced at him toward the   
end of the service, I could swear that his eyes were glittering suspiciously.   
  
The boys at the school were sympathetic enough, in their own rough way; they had all liked   
Elizabeth Hardy a great deal. As might be expected, once the nefarious deeds of the   
inimitable "Rathe" had come to light, the school officials were only too happy to reinstate   
Holmes and myself to full scholar status, though no apologies for our ill treatment were   
forthcoming. We even learned from the maths professor that it had actually been Ehtar who   
had insisted upon Holmes' summary expulsion, but that wasn't particularly surprising after   
all that had come to pass.  
  
When the time came, I helped Holmes pack once again, from the old professor's study this   
time, and carried his violin down to the waiting carriage. I turned to him once I'd placed   
his case into the hack, and had some trouble keeping a satisfied smile from taking over my   
face. "Of course, you did forget one very important clue," I stated casually.  
  
"Oh?" He looked taken aback. "Please enlighten me."  
  
"Well, 'Rathe' is 'Ehtar' spelled backward," I declared, with no small amount of triumph.  
  
His appreciative grin rewarded my efforts. "Very clever, Watson. Well, I'm certain I would  
have arrived at that conclusion, sooner or later."  
  
Any tendency on my part to feeling crestfallen was thwarted by the mischievous twinkle I   
caught in his eyes. "Sooner or later," I agreed indulgently. "Are you coming back after   
the holidays?"  
  
"No," he said quickly, turning to glance at the second floor window we'd seen Elizabeth   
standing at just days earlier. "There are too many memories here."  
  
Desiring to put his mind at ease in some way, I exclaimed, "Holmes, you have your entire   
life ahead of you!"  
  
His gaze did not waver. "And I'll spend it alone," he pronounced firmly.  
  
Seeing no use in contradicting him, I instead drew a hastily wrapped package from my coat   
pocket. "Merry Christmas, Holmes."  
  
I was a bit anxious about his reaction to my gift, remembering that he'd derided my choice   
when I'd purchased it, but I needn't have worried. Holmes looked genuinely pleased to   
receive the battered pipe, placing the stem in his mouth at a rakish angle. He'd taken to   
wearing that infernal inverness overcoat of Ehtar's--a practice I thought rather morbid--and  
together with the old professor's shapeless deer stalker cap and my gaudily curved antique   
pipe, he cut quite a romantic figure standing in the new snow.  
  
"I thought you might have more luck smoking it. It does seem to suit you...but that coat!   
Why do you insist on wearing that *ridiculous* cloak of that *unspeakable* person?"  
  
"Consider it a trophy, Watson. The skin of a leopard," he explained placidly.  
  
"Indeed," said I, a bit grudgingly.  
  
Suddenly, he stuck out his long, thin hand to me, and I clasped it. "I'm going to miss you,  
Watson."  
  
"I'm going to miss you, too," I replied in kind, and found that I truly meant it. "You   
know," I added as emotion threatened to choke my voice, "you were right about something."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"It was a great adventure."   
  
Holmes did not reply, only smiled a farewell and climbed into his cab, shutting the   
windowless door with an air of finality.  
  
Just as he was about to signal the driver, I remembered the epiphany I'd come to the night   
before, and leapt forward to grasp the ledge. "Holmes, I know why the bear's white! The   
only room with an all southern view is in the North Pole, it's a polar bear!"  
  
He smiled again, approval alight in his expression, and said, "Bravo, Watson. You have the   
makings of a great detective."  
  
With that high praise ringing in my ears, I stepped back onto the kerb and watched his   
four-wheeler drive away into the distance.  
  
**********  
  
London  
January, 1872  
  
  
  
With Holmes gone, the school felt deadly dull. The black coats of the student uniform and   
the shadowy corridors created a thoroughly sombre atmosphere that served to dampen my mood   
even further than I had thought possible. I had made a few casual friends among the boys in  
my year, but no one had the crisp and bracingly logical energy that I'd come to appreciate   
in Holmes.   
  
It was several days before it dawned upon me that I actually missed his company, but as any   
boy would, I made do. I received a telegram from him almost immediately after this   
realization, saying that he'd arrived at his brother's safely and was deeply absorbed in   
some mystery or another. I was glad that he had something to distract his mind from the all  
too recent past. Confidentially, I was also slightly envious for the same reason.   
  
His wit cheered me considerably, however, and caused me to belatedly realize that I'd not   
written to my father in some time. I knew that he would be exceedingly worried and might   
even come blustering down to London if I didn't remedy the situation soon. Still, I   
hesitated as to how much of our adventure I should reveal to him. To be sure, he would be   
appalled at how close I had come to losing my situation at Bromton, to say nothing of the   
peril I'd faced to life and limb.   
  
After much debate, I decided to spend most of my letter detailing the more innocuous   
episodes of the case, while slipping in the information about the less savory aspects as   
surreptitiously and briefly as possible. I'd never actually lied to my father before, by   
omission or otherwise, and I wasn't about to start now.  
  
Still, one shouldn't dwell on one's misfortunes.  
  
Once I'd posted the letter, I didn't expect an answer for some days, as Her Majesty's mail   
service in the north of England was decidedly less than efficient in those days. Needless   
to say, I was unpleasantly surprised to receive a reply in little more than a week.   
  
The tone of the missive was unequivocally stern and overwhelmingly reproving for my   
"reckless" conduct and "disregard" for my schooling. I should have guessed that he would   
immediately grasp the well hidden allusions in my letter. My father made it clear that he   
expected a whole hearted return of focus to my studies, with my goal of a career in medicine  
fixed firmly before me.  
  
Smarting from the rebuke, I quickly put his letter away and turned my attention back to my   
chemistry texts.  
  
Consequently, it was some time before the remonstrative majority of his message faded enough  
to let the words of his closing paragraph register in my mind. I had written to my father,   
a gifted private physician in his own right, at length about the darts used by Ehtar's   
religious followers to deliver the poison to their victims. I'd even been able to find out   
the name of the substance, and had included it in my explanation of its effects.   
  
Father had dutifully replied in kind--once he'd finished berating me, that is--detailing   
everything that he could discover about that insidious drug. Of course, under the weight of  
his prior tirade, I'd taken little notice of what he had to say on the matter, preferring to  
simply rid myself of the letter altogether.  
  
Several days later as I was studying my anatomy text, his clinical commentary came back to   
me with an all-encompassing rush. Frowning, I rifled through my cluttered drawers, finally   
locating the offending document and spreading its last page before me. It read:  
  
  
  
"I found your reference to the nerve toxin quite intriguing, indeed.   
The poison used on the darts is rather unusual, to say the least.   
I've done a bit of in depth reading and questioned a colleague of mine   
who worked for a time in the East Indies. Apart from its hallucinogenic   
properties, the compound on your darts has a peculiar effect on the   
recipient's circulatory system. Essentially, it causes the blood flow   
to slow considerably, well below the level seen during sleep. In fact,   
this friend of mine claims that several patients of his under the drug's   
influence were thought to be quite dead for a short time before it had   
worked itself out of their bodies...."  
  
  
  
I sat at my desk for a full minute, too stunned to even analyze his words beyond the obvious  
connotation. It was impossible, simply impossible! There was absolutely no way that such   
an effect could have coincided with the tragic events that followed our escape. And even if  
it were possible that a stray dart could have pierced Elizabeth's skin, I had checked her   
pulse myself, seen her breathing stop, watched her limp form being spirited away in a   
horse-drawn ambulance! There was simply no possibility of the outrageous things my   
imagination was conjuring up. Certainly not.  
  
Suddenly, my mind cleared and all I could think about was the minute flicker of the eyelids   
that I myself had witnessed. Not a spasm of death, it seemed to me now, but a decided sign   
of lingering life! Clearly, if my wild imaginings were even remotely correct and Elizabeth   
had survived the gunshot, we had missed any sign of her at the hospital because our search   
had been exclusively concerned with finding a corpse. No one had recalled her under Holmes   
blistering questions because the very much alive girl would have been taken to an entirely   
different section of the enormous building. Once the police had written her disappearance   
off as a body snatching, not a soul had bothered to look any further, or (in Holmes and my   
case) to look in a different direction.  
  
As my incredulity battled with my sudden firm, propitious belief, I wondered what in the   
world I could possibly do about it. My first impulse was, of course, to contact Sherlock   
Holmes immediately, so that he, with his brilliant reasoning and succinct strategizing,   
could tell me what to do. However, the fear that I was simply going mad stayed me just as   
quickly, and the thought of giving Holmes another teasing hope to be crushed persuaded me to  
leave him out of the matter for the moment.  
  
My next thought was to make immediately for the hospital myself to prove or disprove my   
tentative theories in comfortable anonymity. However, I could not very well go barging into  
the surgery demanding to know if anyone had performed a near-miraculous and highly unlikely   
operation on a young woman over a month earlier.   
  
Abruptly, Holmes' measured tones sounded in my head: "The most effective way to get   
information out of somebody is usually not by direct questioning. A round-about method   
oftentimes yields better results."  
  
With this advice in mind and feeling almost as if my friend were standing beside me, I   
managed to restrain myself from leaping impatiently into action and put my mind to creating   
a suitable ruse. I pondered the problem for quite some time, rejecting several   
possibilities as too thin, before settling on the perfect story.  
  
In preparation for my afternoon outing, since I would need to look the part of a   
professional and rather older student, I donned my stiff school uniform with its jet waist   
coat and crisply pressed trousers. I even attempted to tame my mop of unruly hair,   
succeeding to some degree, and certainly well enough to fool my prey. Looking quite smart,   
I caught a hansom cab (to emphasize my supposed status) and made for the city hospital.  
  
Doing my utmost to imitate Holmes' impeccable posture, I strode confidently up to the   
supervising nurse to state my case. "Pardon my intrusion, madam, but I have an important   
problem to bring before you," I said crisply.  
  
The good lady looked not at all impressed by my stately manner, asking flatly, "'Ow can oi   
'elp you, sir?"  
  
Undaunted, I pressed firmly onward, calling on what little dissimulation skill I possessed.   
"Madame," I said gravely, trying to deepen my voice, "I am a medical student here in Town,   
and have recently been tasked with a singular project. I am looking for information   
regarding any cases of abdominal gunshot wounds within the last year, or so. As you surely   
know, many advances have been made recently in treating such cases, and the probability of   
survival has greatly increased."   
  
I crossed my fingers discretely behind my back at this last, hoping that she would take me   
at my word. Her expression had not softened in the least, so I thought to attempt a bit of   
cajoling. "Have you been working at this hospital long, madam?"  
  
"Goin' on twen'y year, now," she said, blushing a bit at the attention.  
  
"A long and, no doubt, distinguished career, mum," I exclaimed, making my appreciation   
plain. Her gaze dropped to her clasped hands, a bit demurely, and I was gratified to see a   
pleased smile tugging at the hard line of her mouth. "I'm sure you must have seen all that   
there is to see during your tenure here." I smiled solicitously, and that was all it took   
to open her up. Clearly this woman was not often on the receiving end of even such a small   
amount of praise.  
  
"Aw, yessir, oi seen everyfing pass froo 'er, oi 'ave! Why, jus' t'other day, we 'ad a   
bloke in oo'd 'ad 'is leg off in an 'ansom cab crash. 'Ow did tha' come 'bout, yeh might   
ask...."  
  
I waited as she regaled me with the gory details of several recent cases, ruthlessly   
quelling my impatience with her long-winded monologue. In addition to this, we were often   
interrupted by various persons checking in with complaints ranging from influenza to gout.   
Finally, just as I was about to try and steer her back to my original query, she kindly   
volunteered the information without further prodding.  
  
"Now, sir, wha' you said when yeh firs' came in, now tha' reminds me of a slip of a girl we   
'ad in, not two month ago."  
  
Somehow, I refrained from leaping over the counter and demanding the information at once.   
Affecting a mildly interested expression, I said, "Oh? Please, I am very interested."  
  
She giggled, and my teeth ground together loudly. "Wew, this young lass were brought in wif  
an 'ole frew 'er middle, way o'er on th' lef' side, if oi recollect rightly. Not a soul   
knew 'ow she'd been shot, or wha' 'er name were, an' i' loo'ed real bad for 'er fer a long   
while."  
  
I swallowed convulsively. "She survived, then? How did that come about, if I may ask?"  
  
"Aw, you'd 'ave ta ask Doc'er Fitzgerald fer 'ow it were done." The name imprinted itself   
indelibly in my mind, though I made no comment. "All oi know is," she continued, "tha' poor  
young thing 'ad an 'ole frew 'er stomach, bu' she weren't bleedin' like she should 'a' been.  
Though' she were dead already when they brung 'er in, bu' th' good doc'er were able ta patch  
'er up real good-like." She clucked her tongue sympathetically, failing to notice my hands   
gripping her counter in white-knuckled tension.  
  
"What happened to her, then?" I asked, a trifle more brusquely than was prudent.  
  
"Aw, she were on th' edge fer many a day, sir. Oi fink she were 'ere fer more 'n free weeks  
befo' fings loo'ed a bit brigh'er."  
  
Keeping my excitement tightly reigned, I commented, "So, she's still alive then? That's   
amazing!"  
  
"Aw, yes, love, tha' i' t'is."  
  
"This is just the sort of case I've been looking for. Would it be at all possible for me to  
speak to--Dr. Fitzgerald, was it?" I asked, hoping against hope that the man himself could   
give me more detail than this nurse possessed.  
  
"One moment...." She trailed off as she scanned through several lists resting on her desk.   
"Whoi, yes, love, th' doc'er is makin' 'is rounds just now. Oi'm sure 'e could spare a few   
moments for yeh, lad. Sybil," she called, turning to a slip of a girl in a nurse's uniform   
who was passing behind us. "Could you show this gen'lem'n ta Doc'er Fitzerald, please?"  
  
"Yes, miss," she replied softly, giving me a little curtsey, and then turning to continue on  
her way down the corridor.  
  
I pasted an appreciative smile on my face and gave the matron a parting, "Thank you, madam,"  
as I hurried off to follow the girl.  
  
The young nurse was silent as she led me through endless hallways smelling of disinfectant   
and human suffering. It reminded me, once again, of how fortunate I had been that my   
father's practice was so small and unpretentious, rather than immense and impersonal as this  
city hospital was. Various groans and wails greeted us as we passed by a seemingly endless   
succession of sick wards, before finally turning into one populated by emaciated children.   
  
A wave of compassion threatened to overwhelm me as I took in their pitiful little faces.   
Part of me wished to weep at the sorrowful lives these younglings were doomed to lead, but I  
instead let the sight firm my resolve to pursue my chosen career. What better way could I   
find to help relieve such anguish?  
  
A doctor was standing next to the door with a sheaf of charts in his hands, checking over   
the vital signs of his small patients. The man was short, hardly taller than myself, in   
fact. His graying blond hair was left unfashionably long, and hung down to cover his   
spectacles as he read. His clothing, covered by his white medical smock, was well cut,   
though not too expensive as to be impractical in his profession. He looked up as we   
approached, and I was startled by the weariness that seemed to hang about him like a cloak.   
  
Dismissing the nurse, the doctor gave me a tight smile and bade me to accompany him through   
his rounds as I explained myself. "What is your name, my lad?" he asked with a somewhat   
distracted air.  
  
"John Watson, sir."  
  
This seemed to startle him, for he stopped in his tracks and exclaimed, "Not Henry Watson's   
boy?"  
  
"The very same!" I could not keep my eyebrows from creeping up my forehead in astonishment.  
  
"By George, my boy, I knew your father at university! We lived in the same lodgings, and went   
through all the trials of medical school together." His face seemed transformed as he gave   
a delighted bark of laughter and clapped me on the shoulder.  
  
As I thought about it, I suddenly recalled my father speaking at length about his mates at   
college, including one Liam Fitzgerald. What a stroke of luck! My father's relationship   
with this man could be just the device I needed to obtain the ever-elusive information about  
Elizabeth's fate.   
  
I was an inch from revealing the entire truth to him without delay, thinking that surely the  
good doctor would sympathize with my plight. In fact, my tongue was only halted by Holmes'   
voice sounding once again in my mind:  
  
"Use your brain, Watson! An effective disguise, no matter how trivial, must be carried out   
to the letter if you wish to succeed. One misstep and all could be lost!"  
  
Accordingly, I cleared my throat to cover my conspicuous pause, and tried to regain my air   
of aspiring medical student as I repeated my story to Doctor Fitzgerald. To this day, I'm   
sure that it was only his pleasure at meeting the son of an old schoolmate that distracted   
him from any skepticism he might have felt.   
  
Thankfully, Doctor Fitzgerald invited me back to his office in a genial manner to take tea   
with him, perfectly willing to relate the entire uncommon case to my welcome ears. As I   
sipped piping hot Earl Grey from a plain teacup, he thumbed through stack after stack of   
patient files, finally happening upon that of the anonymous young woman in whom I had taken  
such a professional interest.  
  
"Let's see," he began, scanning over his notes to refresh himself of the details. "Yes,   
that was quite a case, my boy, quite a case. That girl should have died, there's no   
question about it. However, for some reason, her heart rate was so low at the time of the   
wounding that her bleeding was kept to a minimum, far less than it should have been."   
  
He paused, maddeningly, but I somehow managed to keep my hold on the delicate cup and   
saucer.   
  
"The wound," he continued, "was situated in the upper left portion of the abdomen, just shy   
of the ribs. An inch to the right, and the aorta would have been perforated, not to   
mention the stomach and liver. Amazingly, the bullet penetrated only about an inch and a   
half into the abdomen, while I would have expected the wound to extend quite a bit deeper.   
I speculated at the time that when the gun was fired, there was something amiss with it or   
with the shell, probably too little powder. It made the shot fire weakly, and averted   
considerable damage to her internal organs."  
  
I abruptly realized that I was slack-jawed in my astonishment. Surely, such an   
extraordinary combination of circumstances couldn't have conspired to thwart Ehtar and save   
sweet Elizabeth! Surely it must be another girl! My mind reeled with the implications,   
shuddered at the clear hand of Providence that must have been responsible for such an   
outcome. Thankfully, Doctor Fitzgerald was too engrossed in his narrative to be bothered by  
my quiet fit of apoplexy.  
  
"It was really quite remarkable," said he. "We were in surgery for two hours trying to find  
and remove the bullet, and another hour was spent repairing the damage to the spleen and   
sewing up the wound itself. It was an exhaustive operation, and for quite a while, it   
looked as if we'd laboured for naught." He sighed, sipping his tea contemplatively, and I   
nearly tore out my hair in frustration.  
  
"What happened to her then, if I may ask?" I said, my voice quaking slightly.  
  
"Ah, laddie, the girl was comatose for nearly three weeks, though she did surface from time   
to time--to cry out against some horrible night terror, I suppose. Also, she began to bleed  
quite a bit a few hours after the surgery had been completed, and we had the devil of a time  
getting it under control. However, the healing was coming along nicely, when she finally   
awoke. The girl seemed quite disoriented, and my nurses had trouble getting her to answer   
any questions. In fact, when I spoke with her, she said that she could only clearly   
remember receiving the gunshot wound, and had no recollection of her own history. It was a   
strange reaction, indeed, as amnesia usually comes about by a blow to the head. However, we  
worked with her for another week, trying to coax some memory as she continued to heal, but   
she could only seem to remember one word. What was it again?" Doctor Fitzgerald murmured   
distractedly as he rifled through the small stack of yellowing papers in his lap, before   
finally locating the information with a triumphant grin. "Yes, that was it. Her only firm   
recollection was the word 'Rathe.'"   
  
When he finally looked up at me, my face must have been as pale as a ghost, and he leapt to   
his feet with concern written upon his features. "Here, now, laddie!" he exclaimed as I   
swayed dizzily in the high-backed chair. My vision began to cloud around the edges, and I   
am certain that I would have fallen into a dead faint had the good doctor not shoved my head  
between my knees and ordered me to take deep breaths. Of course, I would have been much   
embarrassed by my weakness had the confirmation of my dim hope not weighed so heavily on my   
mind.   
  
It was true, then. There could be no remaining doubt. Elizabeth was alive, recovering from  
a miraculously slight gunshot wound, and most assuredly within my trembling grasp!  
  
Once I had recovered some equilibrium, I could wait not a single moment longer before   
blurting out, "She's here then, alive? I must see her!"  
  
"Calm yourself, laddie," the doctor admonished, pushing another cup of tea into my hand and   
reseating himself behind his desk. "What is your interest in this, John Watson, and I'll   
have no more tales from you." His expression was stern, but the compassion in his eyes   
assured me that it would be safe to confess my story, if only in part.  
  
Choosing my words carefully, I explained, "I chose to pursue this topic for my anatomy   
project because of a friend I had lost recently in that selfsame way, not two months ago.   
No one could discover what had become of to her, and we were told that she was quite dead.   
So you can understand my reaction when I heard this remarkable story, and the inclusion of   
the word 'Rathe,' which is...her...her brother's name," I contrived hastily. Finding that I  
needed to put the hypothesis to a final test, I reached into my coat pocket and produced a   
photograph of Elizabeth which Holmes had given me. Holding it out for Doctor Fitzgerald to   
see, I asked, "Is this the girl whom you have described?"  
  
I waited with painfully bated breath as he scrutinized the small likeness briefly, before   
smiling kindly at me. "Yes, dear boy, that is my patient."   
  
I nearly collapsed with the relief of this confirmation, but it was not a moment before my   
mind began to race with possibilities for my next plan of action. First things first, I   
reminded myself. "I must see her, sir," I insisted, as politely as possible.  
  
Doctor Fitzgerald frowned, and his brow furrowed so deeply that I experienced a horrible   
rush of fear and doubt. "Lad, the girl was taken from this hospital almost two weeks ago by  
her uncle. I call it very callous that he did not inform you of this occurrence," he   
declared, and was obliged to rush to my side once again as the blood drained from my face.   
"Come, lad, why do you not lie down--"   
  
I cut him off hastily, forcing calm words past my swollen throat. "Doctor! Forgive me   
again, but I am simply astounded that her...uncle did not tell me that she had lived. I am   
not familiar with her extended family, so can you possibly tell me who he was and where he   
has taken her."  
  
Doctor Fitzgerald stared at my ashen face for a long moment, obviously puzzling over my   
actions and trying to divine my intentions. Finally, much to my relief, he seemed to decide  
me trustworthy, and consented to provide the precious information. "Of course, laddie,   
don't you vex yourself any longer about your young lass," he intoned soothingly as he wrote  
the name and address out on a slip of paper. "There you are, then. You'll be seeing the   
lass soon enough."  
  
My hand shook violently as I reached out to take the paper from him, thanked him, and left   
with his admonition to "Give your father my regards, laddie." I was soon outside and   
drawing in great lungfuls of crisp, winter air before I remembered that I hadn't even looked  
at his information in my haste to depart the oppressive, antiseptic atmosphere.  
  
My hands still trembled slightly as I unfolded the paper and read in the doctor's scrawling  
copperplate:  
  
  
  
Prof. Moriarty  
The Kilns  
Oxfordshire  
  
  
  
The name meant nothing to me. I had reached the limit of my capabilities as a lone   
investigator, not only because I could not suddenly leave school, but because I had no   
notion of how to proceed against this obviously fictitious "uncle" who had spirited   
Elizabeth away.  
  
The time had finally come to contact Sherlock Holmes.  
  
  
  
J. H. Watson  
  
  
  
**********  
  
A/N: Well, that's the longest chapter thus far; in fact, it more than doubles the entire   
word count of the previous chapters combined. Don't I feel creative. Anyway, I hope you   
enjoyed it. Of course, I had to make up some things to fit the plot, like the amnesia—I'm   
not sure how that came about yet. Also, Moriarty's address is actually where C. S. Lewis   
lived for 30 years, just outside of Oxford University. It seemed a good idea to have a   
professor living near a university. "Henry Watson" came about from a question posed to a   
Sherlockian discussion group, who pointed out that Watson had a brother named "Henry, Jr."   
Therefore, their father must also be named "Henry."  
  
Some will be happy that Watson had so much to do in this chapter, and some of you will cry   
havoc for more Holmes. I miss him too, never fear. He'll be back soon enough.  
  
I would like to thank those of you who have stuck with me so far, and have continued to   
review even during this long drought period. To say that even one review brightens my day   
would be an understatement.  
  
Special thanks to Chelsea for pointing out my spelling mistake! 


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: The events and characters recongnizable from YSH belong  
to Paramount, though I have reason to believe that Holmes belongs  
solely to himself....  
  
A/N: Sorry for the delay....computer problems. Anyway, there is a   
momentary change of point of view in this installment. I'm sure that   
you can guess who it is.... Enjoy!  
  
**********  
  
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes  
  
**********  
  
At this point in the narrative, I am obliged to rely upon the personal   
account written by Miss Elizabeth Hardy during the time of her captivity   
in order to convey her situation beyond my own purview. What follows is   
a collection of diary entries which should adequately depict Elizabeth's   
point of view, and I utilize them now with the gracious consent of the   
author.  
  
John H. Watson  
  
**********  
  
I feel so heavy. The wound in my middle burns and itches and aches   
constantly. My only relief from the pain comes in a haze of morphia.   
It sucks every coherent thought from my mind, leaves me listless and   
careless.   
  
So, for the moment, I choose to endure the unendurable so that I might   
set my thoughts down on paper.  
  
It has been two long weeks now since I was brought to this gloomy house.   
The man who took me from the hospital, Professor James Moriarty, says   
that he is my uncle and only living relative. I, however, see no   
resemblance between us. Perhaps a bit about the nose....  
  
Curse my memory! No one at the hospital seemed to understand how my   
recollections could have been so affected by a simple gunshot wound. Of   
course, no one there knew how I came by the wounding in the first place,   
nor even what my own name is. As I could be no help in that area   
either, it was something of a revelation when "Uncle James"--he insists   
upon my calling him that--appeared at my bedside.  
  
He had a haggard, sickly look about him, then and now, though I suppose I   
have no room to point out weaknesses in others. Not in my present   
condition.  
  
Though I can recall no specifics, my litheness of body (despite such   
long inactivity) indicates that I have led an active enough life. It is   
understandable, then, that my confinement has frustrated me greatly.  
  
During my brief stretches of lucidity, images and words surface in the   
near-empty pool of my mind--all triggering a vague familiarity, but   
nothing solid enough for me to grasp.  
  
Images and words....  
  
Of course, there was that first recollection, "Rathe." I know not if it  
is a name or some other reference. It brought with it a rise of acid to   
the back of my throat, but that might have been the acursed medicines I   
must ingest.  
  
It is in the drifting between sleep and wakefulness that those eyes come   
to me. Gray eyes, in turns piercing and brilliant as a diamond, then   
again soft and changing as the coat of a dappled mare.  
  
But the peace and comfort I feel in those moments is oft disrupted by a   
jarring blur of sensations and visions--the flashing of moonlight on a   
steal-bladed rapier...an old man throwing dirt down upon me as I lie   
screaming in a deep grave...that same old man seated in a winged   
contraption and launching himself into space...a pudgy boy with glasses   
speaking pointedly to a pastry....  
  
The jumble of images is both terrifying and disheartening. How am I to   
discern what is really a memory from what is merely the product of a   
fevered nightmare?   
  
There seems to be now hope of answers at present....  
  
The pain becomes more than I can bear....the nurse approaches....  
  
**********  
  
There is no end to this discordant lifestyle in sight....  
  
Professor Moriarty--I cannot bring myself to refer to him as "Uncle" in   
the privacy of my own thoughts!--carries an air of intrigue and   
desception about him like a cloak. Even as he assures me of my   
continued recovery and of the identity he has given me, I can plainly   
see the lie behind his simpering smile. And still the stupefying drugs   
are administered.   
  
It is because of my extreme distrust of that dark man that I have taken   
to writing this diary of sorts in secret and concealing the papers in   
the small space behind my headboard. Neither the nurse nor the   
professor is yet the wiser to my actions. But I must continue with the   
utmost caution.   
  
Memory continues to elude me. The images in my lethargic dreams become   
more numerous every-day, and yet they refuse to be organized into a   
coherent whole, or even an incomplete framework. In the moments when   
pain or drug does not cloud my mind, I have come to think that the   
"medicines" might be aiding in my continued confusion. From what I   
remember of the doctor's ramblings, I should be quite improved by now,   
even be up and about. Yet the professor insists that it will be some   
time before I am at all recovered.   
  
The sickness I feel seems to stem from the drugs, however, and not from   
the tear in my side. After many surreptitious examinations on my part,   
I can see that the wound is healing quite adequately. The pain in   
between injections of morphine has lessened considerably over the last   
few days. I know not if I had any medical training in my former life,   
but it looks to me as if I am being deliberately held in abeyance.   
  
This conclusion only begs additional questions: why am I being made to   
feel more ill than I am? Why does the professor lie so continually to   
me? Is he really who he says he is? Has there been some great intrigue   
behind my wounding and recovery that I cannot yet understand? Are my   
true familiars even now convinced that I am missing, or even--God forbid   
it--quite dead?  
  
My speculations leave me sweating coldly, overwhelmed that such   
intricate machinations have even occurred to me. Are these simply the   
ravings of a delusional girl? Do I see shadows where none are extant?   
I cannot know.   
  
Again and again, I return to the memory--I am certain it must be   
so!--the memory of those eyes. They haunt me in my times of doubt.   
They seem to gaze with affirmation as I speculate upon the intrigue that   
surrounds me. They caress and soothe me when the enormity of my   
situation threatens to overwhelm me and maudlin tears pour forth.  
  
It is to them that I must cling if I am ever to get through my recovery   
and discover what black purpose has kept me--  
  
**********  
  
The professor walked in just now and very nearly discovered my hasty   
scribblings. He seemed somewhat agitated, restless and snappish in the   
early morning light. It was only by an obvious strength of will that he   
was able to don his mask of familial benevolence.  
  
And yet, I could see a subtle fear lurking in his black eyes. Oh, how I   
pray that it could somehow work to my advantage....  
  
The nurse....  
  
***********  
  
A/N: This chapter is rather shorter than the last, but I wanted to   
convey the small stretches of time which Elizabeth has to write in   
secret. I know she doesn't sound delirious, but it didn't seem logical   
to have her go so far as to write down nonsensical ramblings. It is   
only when she is not under the drug's influence that she can think   
clearly. It reminds me of C. S. Lewis's "The Silver Chair" in the   
Narnia chronicles, when Prince Rilian knows himself and his captivity   
only for one hour a day.   
  
Anyway, Holmes and Watson will return in the next chapter, which   
hopefully will present itself to me soon.  
  
Incidentally, why does Moriarty seem so fearful? Could our dynamic duo   
be behind that?  
  
I would like to thank those of you who have stuck with me so far, and   
have continued to review even during another long drought period. To say  
that even one review brightens my day would be a criminal understatement. 


End file.
